UC-NRLF 


SB    ESI 


LYRICS  AND  SONNETS 


LOUIS   HOW 


PROM  THE 
LIBRARY  OF 


WILLIAM 

AND  ANNE 
HABBERLEYj 

if 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
WILLIAM  C.  HABBERLEY 


LA   I'RIXCKSSK  I'll  KM)  I /AIR 

PAIXTED    BV    NATHANIEL    COBB 
AND   NOW    IN    THE    POSSESSION 

OF    MISS    RUtTTZ-HEES 
ROSEMARY    HAM,,    GREENWICH,    CONNECTUVT 


LYRICS   AND    SONNETS 


BY 

LOUIS  HOW 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  6-  COMPANY 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &•  COMPANY 


TO 
MY   MOTHER 


M595GG7 


CONTENTS 

LYRICS 

SLAVIC  FOLK-SONG 

"  POOR  TOM'S  A-COLD  " 

HENLEY 

THE  NURSERY 

CHRIST'S  DOVES 

THE  TOWER 

OUR  LADY  OP  APPARENT  FAILURE 

THE  STRIPES 

LANTERNS 

A  HEAD  IN  THE  GLYPTOTHEK 

SOLACE 

BROWNING  IN  VENICE 

HANDS 

SHEPHERD'S  SONG 

YOUR  TROPHY 

ILLUSION 

SENTIMENTALITY 

SORROW  AND  YOU  AND  I 

SALTARELLO 

NOTRE  CCEUR 

FOR  REMEMBRANCE 

A  CYNICAL  SENTIMENTALIST 


SONNETS 

THE    SALT    MEADOWS 

RAIN 

"  DU   BIST   DIE  RUH  " 

A  LIVING  LIFE 

LA  PRINCESSE   PREND   L*AIR 

THE    PROTESTANT    CEMETERY 

A  NIGHT  VISION 

THE  FAUN   I II 

SUGGESTION 

SAN   LORENZO,  FUORI  LE  MURA 

ACCEPTANCE 

SPRING  IN  ROME 

A  NEW  MAN  I II 

COURAGE 

PAIN'S  USE 

EPITAPH 

THE  INSIDIOUS  VOICE 

VILLA  MEDICI 

SANTA  RESTITUDINE 

EXHORTATION 


LYRICS 


SLAVIC  FOLK-SONG 

ADAPTED 

NOTHING  was  whiter,  I  used  to  say, 
Than  your  little  body.     Every  way 
I  was  enraptured  and  ravished :  naught 
Of  feeling  stronger  than  that,  I  thought 

Ah,  but  today !     Today  I  know. 
You  are  whiter  far  than  a  week  ago. 
And  the  feeling  I  have  as  I  stoop  to  kiss,- 
The  other  was  weak  as  the  dust  to  this ! 


"  POOR  TOM'S  A-COLD  " 

"  POOR  Tom's  a-cold!  "     The  wintry  wind 

Turns  into  bitter  ice  the  rain 
Soaking  his  mantle.     "  Never  mind," 

Says  Patience;  "  Summer  comes  again." 

"  Poor  Tom's  a-cold !  "     However  chill 
His  heart,  it  has  the  warmth  to  yearn 

For  vanished  love  and  hope.     "  Be  still," 
Says  Patience ;  "  Youth  will  not  return." 


HENLEY 

His  "  songs  were  once  of  the  sunrise" ; 
They  are  of  the  sunrise  yet, 

With  the  birds  to  the  dawn  full-throating 
And  the  green  marsh-grasses  wet, 

And  the  wisps  of  pink  clouds  floating 
Like  birds  of  a  higher  wing : 
To  him  it  is  ever  sunrise, 

It  is  always  youth  and  spring. 

He  sings  to  his  sweetheart,  singing ; 
And  this  is  his  song's  chief  theme : 

It  is  good  to  be  men  as  we  are  men, 
And  to  front  the  sun's  first  beam 

Naked  and  frank, —  what  then! 
Living  our  life  is  the  thing ! 
His  lust  is  a  wholesome  singing; 
It  is  always  youth  and  spring. 

Sorrow  keeps  dogging  us  always  — 
Drown  what  we  can  in  drink ! 

What  overreaches  us,  scorn  it ; 
Pain  cannot  make  a  man  shrink. 

For  the  sake  of  the  joys  we've  borne  it, 
Life  with  its  sudden  sting; 
And  so  were  we  glad  to  always, — 
It  is  always  youth  and  spring ! 


THE  NURSERY 

REFLECTED  in  his  mother's  eyes 

He  lies  upon  the  hay, 
And  jewelled  toys  of  kingly  size 

Are  his,  if  he  would  play. 

He  is  too  weak,  too  small : 

He  stares  at  the  stars  o'erhead, 

Till  a  rapture  moves  among  them  all 
To  dance  above  the  shed. 


CHRIST'S  DOVES 

THE  child  Christ  played 

With  other  little  boys, 
Made 

Them  little  clay  doves  for  toys.. 

"Fly,  little  bird!" 

He  said,  and  they 
Heard 

His  voice  and  flew  away. 

Foolish  little  things ! 

For  if  I  possessed 
Wings, 

I'd  fly  and  nestle  on  his  breast. 


THE  TOWER 

YOUR  lofty  lonely  tower  is  round, 

Carven  with  marble  lace. 
There  is  often  little  sound: 

I  have  even  seen  your  face. 

So  swiftly  the  years  have  murmured  past, 

There  is  nothing  I  have  done. 
I  am  of  lowly  caste, — 

You  are  the  height  of  the  sun. 

Though  you  were  benignly  to  stoop  your 
birth, 

Your  life  is  a  gem-cut  goal ; 
And  I  have  remained  near  earth, — 

There  must  be  caste  in  soul. 

Your  tower  were  scorned  could  a  weakling 
scale : 

Thank  God  that  is  higher,  higher, — 
Divinely  beyond  my  pale ! 

It  is  good  always  to  aspire. 


OUR  LADY  OF  APPARENT  FAILURE 

THE  old,  old  thought  is  all  I  have  of  thee. 

Thy  hair  is  dead,  thy  kiss  long  gone,  thy 

voice     .     .     . 
I    dream    of   thee    as    sitting   by    the    Blessed 

Mother's  knee; 

And   thy   gentle,   gentle   singing   makes   her 
grievous  heart  rej  oice. 

All  the  soul  I  had 

Was    a    shade    of    thy    sweet    soul's    reflec- 
tion    .     .     . 
The   Queen   of   Golden   Heaven   for  her   dead 

Christ  is  sad, 
And  thy  singing  is  her  only  one  delection. — 

O  Christ,  O  Christ,  I  cannot  dare  to  tell 

My  sinning  since  she's   gone  from  me,  for 
fear 

Lest,  while  I'm  burning  evermore  in  hell, 
Her  song,  her  song  may  be  too  far  to  hear. 


THE  STRIPES 

I  WAKE,  and  the  darkness  is  still :  I  lie 
Yearning  with  peace  in  my  bed, — 

Such  peace  as  I  hope  for  after  I  die ; 
Perhaps  even  now  I'm  dead. 

The  dawn  comes  making  my  window  grey. 

Morning  is  sombre  and  chill ; 
And  I  am  not  dead:  it's  another  day. 

But  I  still  can  sleep,  and  I  will. 

But  I  only  doze,  and  a  dingy  flock 

Of  memories  gather,  mute 
And  mocking.     There  thunders  a  sudden 
knock ! 

I  spring  for  my  prison  suit. 


LANTERNS 

THUS  we  look,  thus  others  think 

And  others  say  we  are. 
Day  must  bring  us  meat  and  drink, 

But  night  will  bring  a  star. 

The  night  will  bring  a  cooling  breeze 

And  the  quiet  of  a  room. 
Lie  still,  lie  still !     'Tis  nights  like  these 

Hang  lanterns  in  the  tomb. 


A  HEAD  IN  THE  GLYPTOTHEK 

To  love  this  sweetly-coloured,  perfect  face, 
Suffused  so  calmly  with  an  ordered  grace, 
That  were  to  have  a  love  forever  sure, 
Incapable  of  roaming,  still  demure ; 

A  love  recipient  on  whom  to  spend 
Untroubled  faith  till  life  and  loving  end ; 
A  love  who  certainly  would  never  start 
A  flame  of  apprehension  in  your  heart. 

No,  nor  of  expectation,  to  arouse 
Those  longings  supersensual  where  house 
Our  faith  and  hope  and  tenderness.     Above 
All  beauty,  what  we  cling  to  most  is  love : 

Something  that  will  respond  and  understand, 
And  tremble  to  the  pressure  of  a  hand ; 
Imperfect,  inexpressive,  yet  complete 
In  yearning  to  be  ever  strong  and  sweet. 


SOLACE 

MY  soul  dies  for  the  want 

Of  love.     Old  dreams  that  haunt  . 

My  soul  are  very  grey  and  gaunt. 

You  are  so  far  away, 

Who  with  a  kiss  could  stay 

My  longings  every  night  and  day. 

Then  hold  it  not  amiss 

I  long  for  any  kiss, 

Rather  than  be  reduced  like  this 

To  hunger  in  distress, 

Unable  to  possess 

The  greater  comfort  or  the  less ;  — 

And  through  the  days  of  pain, 

Spoiled  with  unceasing  rain, 

That  I  must  reach  with  gnawing  pain 

Toward  any  minor  love 

That  might  remind  me  of 

Your  tenderness,  your  touch,  above 

All  longing,  all  desire, — 
That  sheer  and  utter  fire 
To  even  whose  pale  glow  and  specious 
shadow  I  aspire. 


BROWNING  IN  VENICE 

I  NEVER  saw  him  but  in  print, 

That  Browning  whom  I  praise  and  prize, 
Who'd  pack  the  whole  world  in  a  hint 

And  open  heaven  to  our  eyes. 

However,  had  I  seen  him  here, 

My  first  proceeding  were  t'  uncover; 

My  next,  to  tell  him,  "  Master  dear, 
All  of  mankind  loves  a  lover. 

"  And  a  lover  loves  the  earth, 

In  and  outside  and  around  it : 
You  are  one  ordained  by  birth 

Capable  of  love,  who  found  it ; 

"  Out  of  many  million  souls 

One,  for  whom  the  world  was  good, 

Since  the  centre  where  it  rolls 
Was  exactly  what  you  would." 

Browning  would  have  smiled  and  said, 
"  Each  man  has  his  proper  credo. 

'Ware  the  sunshine  on  your  head! 
Are  you  going  to  the  Lido  ?  " 


HANDS 

IF  eyes  can  speak,  then  hands, 
For  one  who  understands 
Their  melody,  can  sing 
The  sole  important  thing. 

The  mouth  and  even  eyes 
Are  capable  of  lies : 
But  what  hearts  really  feel 
The  fingers  can't  conceal. 

So  two  that  always  go 
With  hand  in  hand,  can  know 
All  things,  can  still  be  sure 
That  love  is  quite  secure. 


SHEPHERD'S  SONG 

VALDANIENE 

MY  coat  on  my  shoulder,  the  mountains  ahead, 
I  stand  on  the  hill-top  and  play  to  my  sheep. 

Five  are  the  notes  of  my  willow  fife ; 

They  make  me  laugh  and  they  make  me  weep. 

The  sunset  is  red,  but  the  sunset  is  cold. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  reapers  still  sing. 
Candles  light  up  in  the  village  below. 

I  wait  for  the  girl  and  the  bread  she  will 
bring. 

Now  I  am  hungry  and  now  I  am  tired. 

Night  in  the  open  is  lonely  and  chill, 
I  will  play  louder,  perhaps  she  will  hurry ; 

Girls  may  get  frightened  alone  on  a  hill. 


YOUR  TROPHY 

WHEN  I  have  crawled,  worn  out  with  tears, 
Crushed  by  the  sorrow  of  all  my  years, 
Which  suddenly  has  bowed  me,  piled 
Upon  my  neck,  you  never  smiled, 

Reproaching  me  or  comforting ; 
But  have  accepted  what  I  bring, 
Sat  silent,  let  me  grip  you  tight. — 
This  is  your  trophy  which  I  write. 


ILLUSION 

BEING  alone,  I  find 

The  world  more  real,  more  kind. 

If  I  sit  still,  I  hear 

A  voice  well-known  and  dear. 

If,  while  I  hold  me  dumb, 
The  mouth  would  only  come 
And  give  my  mouth  a  kiss 
One  half  so  real  as  this, 

I  would  sit  here  all  day 
Wasting  my  life  away, 
Tasting  that  heavenly  touch, 
And  grieving  not  so  much. 


SENTIMENTALITY 

How  sentimental  and  brave  was  I 

In  the  beautiful  flaming  days  of  my  youth ! 
"  It  is  better  to  die  for  a  lovely  lie," 

I  said,  "  than  to  live  with  an  ugly  truth. 

"  It  is  better  to  think  there  are  some  men  true 
And  tender,  that  love  after  all  exists, 

And  to  stake  one's  fate  on  the  unfound  few, 
Though  it  fasten  a  chain  around  the  wrists. 

"  Fettered,  with  heaven  inside  the  cell, 
Is  better  than  starving  of  soul  and  free, 

For  I  cannot  dwell  in  these  streets  of  hell 

Which  other  men's  minds  have  arranged  for 


Such  was  the  sentimental  stuff 

That  I  thought,  for  it  fitted  my  youthful  will. 
"  Life  is  good  enough,  if  we  are  brave  enough !  " 

I  believed.     And  by  heaven,  I  believe  it  still! 


SORROW  AND  YOU  AND  I 

SORROW  and  you  and  I, — 

More  of  a  biting  bliss 
Here,  than  when  casual  pleasures  fly 

Flocking  around  a  kiss. 

Let  us  cling  tight,  we  three ! 

Joy  has  no  deeper  pang. 
I  see  your  sad  eyes,  I  dream  of  the  sea, 

I  remember  a  song  you  sang. 

Others  eat  joy  and  laugh. 

We  of  the  half-guessed  smile 
Envy  them  not !  they  know  but  the  half : 

Love  lasts  a  little  while. 

But  love  that  is  turned  to  pain, 

Shared  as  by  you  and  me, 
Searches    us    through,    makes    us    over 
again, 

And  lasts  everlastingly. 


SALTARELLO 

VALDANIENE 

DARK  in  a  corner  a  faun  of  a  fellow, 

Clad  in  a  sheepskin  from  shoulders  to  hips, 
Drones  from  a  bag-pipe  a  gay  saltarello, 
And  out  of  the  laughing  crowd  Cesare  slips : 
He  clutches  Francesco  and  drags  him  awhirl. 
And  the  two,  with  eyes  gleaming,  cigars  in 

their  lips, — 

Out  of  which  the  blue  spirals  incessantly  curl, — 
Begin      balancing,      elbows      a-kimbo.     The 

crowd 

Press  around  in  a  circle,  one  pulls  back  a  girl. 
The  room  becomes  hazy  with  smoke;  and  the 

loud 

And  regular  rhythm  of  the  music  keeps  going. 
The  pair  in  the   centre,  now  upright,   now 

bowed, 
Advancing,   retreating,   with   jumps,   heel-and- 

toeing, 
Keep  excellent  time.     And  the  rest,  one  by 

one, 

Resort  to  a  keg  where  the  red  wine  is  flowing* 
And  draining  a  glassful  return  to  the  fun. 
Luigi,  whose  heels  are  beginning  to  tickle, 
Darts  out  from  the  circle.     When  he  has  be- 
gun 


To  balance  to  Cesare,  hardy  and  fickle, 
Francesco  retires,  with  mopping  of  brow. 
Thereon  Pasqua  Rosa,  as  keen  as  a  pickle, 

Who  sees  that  her  husband  is  in  for  it  now 

To  dance  half  the  evening,  withdraws  with 

shy  glances 
Beyond  the  excitement  and  heat  of  the  row, 

Beyond  all  the  noise  of  the  music  and  dances, 
And  out  of  the  garden-door,  into  the  air, 
Warm,  fragrant  with  peach-blossom.     Then, 
as  it  chances 

Pasquale  strolls  after  and  catches  her  there. 
She  escapes  from  his  arms,  and  excited  at 

this, 
He  redoubles  his  efforts,  she  falls  in  the  snare, 

He  removes  his  cigar  and  he  gives  her  a  kiss. 


NOTRE  CCEUR 

I  KEEP  a  love  to  embrace, 

And  one  to  cling  to. 
One  has  a  changing  face, 

The  which  I  sing  to: 

And  is  for  me  the  night 
Of  moonbeams  fingering 

Silence  and  shade,  hushed  light, 
And  odours  lingering 

In  stolen  garden  spot, 

To  full  ecstatic 
Witchery,  heavy,  hot, 

Unenigmatic. 

The  other  is  a  warm, 
Slow-moving  morning : 

Unwearied,  patient  form ! 
Without  a  warning 

I  weep  upon  its  lap ; 

Say  nothing,  maybe ; 
Then  soothed,  turn  over,  nap, 

Calm  as  a  baby. 


FOR  REMEMBRANCE 

PLANT  me  a  little  flower, 
Show  me  a  constant  star, 

Which,  in  the  fatal  hour 
When  you  no  longer  are 

(Dead  or  alive,  who  knows? 

To  me  no  longer  you: 
The  second  person  grows 

A  third,  when  lost  to  view) , 

One,  with  its  mild  perfume, 
One,  with  its  twinkling  beam, 

May  bring  into  my  room 
The  image  of  this  dream, 

So  real,  my  heart  shall  yearn 
Toward  now ;  shall  suffer  pain 

Wishing  that  it  might  burn 
With  love  for  you  again. 


A  CYNICAL  SENTIMENTALIST 

USE  me, 

If  it  give  you  pleasure ; 

Throw  me,  if  you  will,  away : 

Still  the  stars  will  not  abuse  me ; 

I  can  measure 

My  remaining  strength  against  the  day. 

Morning 

And  the  dewy  stretches 

Where  the  sunshine  falls  oblique, 

Will  accept  me  without  scorning. 

All  poor  wretches 

Find  the  mountains  silent  when  they  speak. 

Cattle 

Pasturing  together 

Will  regard  with  kindly  eyes 

Him  who's  vanquished  in  the  battle : 

And  the  weather 

Darken  not  when  desperation  cries. 

Breezes 

Blowing  o'er  the  ocean 

Fan  the  countenance  of  woe, 

And  the  patient  water  eases 

With  its  motion 

Whomsoever  lays  him  down  below. 


Knowing 

This,  I  have  a  feeling, — 

Knowing  too  the  human  mind, — 

Sorrow  will  not  be  long  going; 

I'll  be  stealing 

Kisses  presently  from  one  more  kind. 

Taken 

With  this  understanding, 

Let's  be  prodigal  of  kisses : 

Either  you  or  I  may  waken 

On  the  landing 

Where  the  stairs  ascend  to  better  blisses. 


SONNETS 


THE  SALT  MEADOWS 

LOVELY  are  those  salt  meadows  where  the  sea 
Sings   low.     They   have   a    rampart   of   live 

rocks, 

With  tidal  pools  whose  every  starfish  mocks 
In  purple  pallor  what  frail  flowers  there  be 

Among  the  brackish  grass ;  the  breezes  free 
Glisten  with  foam ;  on  the  horizon  flocks 
Of   fishing-boats   are   standing. —  Here   with 

locks 

Wind-blown  and  blond  comes  my  heart's  dear 
with  me. 

We  loaf  together,  albeit  there  is  set 

A  gulf  profound  dividing  her  from  me  far ; 
Which  is  my  love, —  o'er  it  can  neither  go. 

And  yet  we're  very  near  each  other,  yet 

We  are  happy  in  the  sunshine.     Lovely  are 
Those  salty  meadows  where  the  sea  sings  low. 


RAIN 

THE  rain's  incessant  murmur  in  the  air 

Wakes  the  attention,  keeps  it  breathed,  alert. 
Embrowned  by  wet,  familiar  things  exert 
Deeper  impressions ;  there  is  something  rare 

About  the  tree-trunks  in  the  public  square. 
The  listless  sparrows,  far  from  being  pert, 
Huddle  beneath  a  stoop ;  while  dogs,  inert, 
Hold,  with  their  eyes  askance,  some  casual 
lair. 

The  solitude,  the  silence  of  a  city 

Drenched  and  deserted,  strike  the  wayfarer; 
His    sight,   his    fancy    see   the   world    more 
clearly ; 

It  seems  more  real. —  And  thus  the  eyes  of  pity 
Discern  in  weeping  faces  character 
A  sunny  smile  has  not,  or  latent  merely. 


"  DU  BIST  DIE  RUH' ' 

IN  an  old  German  saying  is  expressed 
The  sentiment  of  everything  I  write: 
You  are  not  merely  my  extreme  delight, 
But  infinitely  more, —  you  are  my  rest. 

You  are  the  realm  beyond  the  East  and  West, 
Whose  tempered  sun  is  perfect  to  the  sight ; 
You  are  the  hush  within  the  deep  of  night, 
When  weary  hands  lie  heavy  on  the  breast. 

Out  of  the  friction  of  all  human  life 

The  sparks  keep  flying,  and  make  history ; 
While  seers  half-blinded  dream,  beyond  the 
lands 

Of  night  and  morning,  a  calm  mystery 

Wherein     is     no     more     troubling.     .     .     . 

From  the  strife 
I  creep  into  my  haven  between  your  hands. 


A  LIVING  LIFE 

To  bathe  in  sunshine  all  the  livelong  day, — 
From  when  the  silvery  dew  upon  the  grass 
Vanishes  wetly  in  the  rays  that  pass 
Athwart  the  apple-branches,  pink  and  grey, — 

Through  the  long  noon  which  drives  the  cows 

away 
To     pasture-corners     where     the     shadows 

mass, — 

And  the  long  waning  afternoon :  alas ! 
Its  hours,  a   series   of  lingering  deaths   are 
they  — 

Till  the  huge  sun  sinks  downward  'mid  the  gold, 
Touches  the  earth,  and  leaves  it  to  the  dark, — 
And  then  to  watch  the  stars  beloved  of  old, 

Come  tentatively  forth,  till  they  are  rife 
In  over  half  the  world  the  eye  can  mark  — 
That  were  in  truth  to  lead  a  living  life. 


LA  PRINCESSE  PREND  L'AIR 

FOR    A    PICTURE 

REMEMBRANCES  of  her  far  Eastern  land 

Flocked  in  the  loggia:  with  her  eyes   half- 
closed, 
The   Princess   brooded   o'er  them   while   she 

dozed. 

The  feathered  Amazon,  elect  to  stand 
Behind  her  naked  shoulder,  calmly  scanned 
The  sunshine  disapprovingly.    Light  posed, — 
Arms  on  the  wall, —  the  other  lady  glozed 
In  fancy,  on  the  passing  horsemen's  band. 
Thus  were  they  often  situate  years  ago, 

Each     of     the     three     with     silent     longing 

worked, — 

A  trinity  of  melancholy  leisure. 
Thus  on  the  canvas  fixed,  they  richly  glow, 
They    and    the    sorry    beauty    where    they 

lurked, — 

Deathless  but  without  pain,  to  bring  us  pleas- 
ure. 


THE  PROTESTANT  CEMETERY 

ROME 

I  KNOW  not  who  was  Caius  Cestius. 

His  pyramid  is  by  the  city  gate, 

Where  rows  of  cypress,  standing  black  and 
straight, 

Mark  their  own  city,  quiet,  ominous. 
Poor  little  Keats,  no  longer  amorous, 

Or  unrequited,  lies  there,  now  grown  great: 

And     Shelley,    who    may    be    aware  —  too 
late?  — 

If  he  was  right  or  merely  marvellous. 
Certain  have  knowledge  of  heaven ;  I  have  none. 

I  were  content  to  learn  the  earth  beneath, 

The  hearts  of  men,  the  secrets  in  them  hid. 
Knowing,  perhaps  I'd  long  that  life  were  done 

And  I  were  lying,  careless  of  a  wreath, 

Near  Caius  Cestius's  pyramid. 


A  NIGHT  VISION 

VAGUE  in  the  shadowy  moonlight  on  the  lawn, — 
Seen  and  unseen  while  weaving  a  design 
Around  and  round  the  silver-columned  pine, 
There  came  last  night  and  danced  a  naked 

faun. 

Danced  long  and  all  alone ;  and  I  withdrawn, 
Breathless    behind   my    shutter, —  drunk,    as 

wine 
Could  never  make  me, —  gazed  these  eyes  of 

mine 
Tired,  though   I  was   not  sleepy, —  till   the 

dawn. 

I'd  no  impetuous  longing  to  be  beckoned 
To  throw  aside  my  clothing  and  descend 
And  join  his  gladsome  riot  on  the  dew. 
But  heartily  I  yearned, —  and  every  second 
Redoubles  yearning  until  absence  end, — 
For  you  there,  close  beside  me,  breathless  too. 


THE  FAUN 


THE  Greeks  have  left  us  evidence  in  art 

How  good  and  charming  man  might  still  have 

been, 

Had  he  remained  more  natural,  and  not  seen 
Complex  desires  blossom  in  his  heart. 
They  made  the  frolic  faun,  species  apart 
From  normal  man,  grosser  but  more  serene, 
Slightly    though    plainly    bestial,    and    yet 

clean, — 

Man  uncorrupted  by  the  school  and  mart ; 
And  debonair.     Whether  he  brings  the  wine, 
Or  sits  on  the  emptying  wine-sack,  whether 

skips 

Balancing  on  his  wand,  or  pipes  divine 
And  simple  music  that  naively  slips 

Sweet   on  the   air, —  his   eyes   with  laughter 

shine 
And  always  there's  a  tune  upon  his  lips. 


THE  FAUN 
ii 

SEEKING  to  catch  it,  let  it  then  behove 
Our  wisdom  to  consider  less  the  taint 
Of  animality,  well-marked  but  faint, 
Than  the  serenity  where  we  see  him  move, 

Slipping  along  the  self-same  heavenly  groove 
Where  the  sun  and  the  other  stars,  without 

constraint, 
Are   moved  by   love.     The   most   unworldly 

saint 

And  he,  teach  the  same  lesson, —  teach  and 
prove. 

Too  often  we  expect  some  mighty  deed 

To  mark  off  one  from  another  sacred  day; 
Too  often  into  grief  and  mourning  read 

Some  clearer  sense  than  joy  could  e'er  display. 
The  fauns  proclaim  the  secret  lore  we  need: 
They  know  a  sacred  reason  to  be  gay. 


SUGGESTION 

THE  wreath  of  yellow  daisies  on  her  locks 
Showed  lovelier  than  they,  whose  only  boast 
Was    youthful    fulness.     And    her    eyes    at 

most 

Had  but  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  ox. 
Her  breath  came  sweetly  from  a  mouth  that 

mocks 

Without  enchanting.     Even  when  engrossed 
In  lively  games,  her  movements   lacked  the 

ghost 
Of    grace.     She   was    less    pretty    than   her 

frocks. 

And  yet,  the  faun  that  dances  on  my  shelf 
Was,  unto  her,  a  candle  to  a  star. 
He  is  a  thing  of  beauty ;  she  an  elf 
Who  conjures  dreams  of  beauty  better  far. 
For  though  she  is  not  lovely  in  herself, 
She  makes  us  think,  how  lovely  children  are. 


SAN  LORENZO,  FUORI  LE  MURA 

TO  P.  F. 

SAINT  LAWRENCE,   Christian  martyr,   suffered 

here. 

Smooth  greenish  marble  monoliths  align 
Their  sturdy  forms  in  his  decorous  shrine: 
The  altar  stands  beneath  a  strange,  austere, 

And  colonnaded  baldaquin :   there  peer 
From  out  mosaics  oddly  Byzantine, 
Prophets  and  Christ  sinisterly  divine, 
Mute  witnesses  of  their  millennial  year. 

Church  of  your  predilection :  underhand 

But  noble ;  formal, —  baffling :  in  whose  style, 
So  tender  and  so  cold,  you  imaged  me. 

That  chill  dim  heavy  cloister,  with  its  brand 
Of  carnal  worship,  in  how  swift  a  while 
Sank  overwhelming  in  our  memory. 


ACCEPTANCE 

LIFE   lures    with    many    a    splendid   bribe   the 

traitor 

To  merely  his  own  vague  and  subtle  soul : 
A  slight  concession  of  a  barren  Pole 
May  earn  a  kingly  realm  below  the  Equator. 

Again,  life  lacks  the  casual  instigator; 
There's  no  one  on  the  road  to  levy  toll, 
No  one  to  tempt  us  toward  or  from  a  goal ; 
No  cohort  to  proclaim  me  imperator. 

The  way  that  we  receive,  await,  reject, — 
The  attitude  wherein  we  laugh  or  groan, — 
Outvalues  all  the  guerdons  we  expect. 

Our  manner  toward  the  universe,  alone 
Gauges  our  worth.  Unable  to  select 
Life's  offers,  yet  acceptance  is  our  own. 


SPRING  IN  ROME 


FROM  the  exalted  garden, —  where,  afar, 
Upon  the  dim  Campagna,  the  low  sky, 
Pallid    with    subdued    brightness,    drops    to 

He,— 
I  saw  the  sea,  aglitter  like  a  star : 

And  felt  no  more  the  wintry  winds  that   are, 

But  felt  the  spring.     The  moment  going  by 

Filled  me  with  languorous  ecstasy,  and  I, — 

Rapt  in  a  day-dream, —  lay  on   sands   that 

bar 

With  golden  bound,  the  ever-surging  ocean 
From  the  warm  soft  sweet  shores  of  Italy. 
I  knew  the  restless  ache  of  spring's  commo- 
tion; 

And,  as  a  part  of  Nature's  entity 

I  had  the  lust  to  lie,  drinking  her  potion, 
Desirous,   yet   contented  just   to   be. 


A  NEW  MAN 


WHEN  I  arise  each  morning  from  my  bed, 

It  is  a  person  new-created  rises ; 

Ready  to  wage  the  battle  for  life's  prizes, 

Untroubled  by  the  past,  for  that  is  dead. 
Beyond  polite  apology,  what's  said 

Of  yesterday  is  vain :  a  smile  suffices. 

And  if  tomorrow  offer  mere  surmises, 

My  wounds  are  healed  which  overnight  still 

bled. 
Today  brings  opportunity  enough 

For  exercising  energy  and  pluck. 

My  bungled  doings  extant  furnish  stuff 
To  work  anew  with  better  skill.     And  luck, 

Who  heretofore  was  only  strange  or  gruff, 

May  now  disclose  a  golden  lead  unstruck. 


A  NEW  MAN 


Therefore  will  I  arise  and  get  me  hence    - 

And  say  not,  "  O  my  Father,  I  have  sinned !  " 
But  let  it  go,  keep  mum,  preserve  my  wind 
To  tackle  the  next  mountain ;  count  my  pence, 

And  in  the  tavern,  like  a  man  of  sense, 

Buy  me  of  eggs  and  coffee,  and  something 

tinned, 
That,  when  I  reach  the  summit  where  I've 

pinned 
My  hope,  I  still  have  body's  maintenance. 

But  I'll  divide  my  meagre  store  in  two, 
And  on  provisions  not  expend  the  whole : 
I'll  buy  a  stalk  of  blossoms,  white  in  hue 

And  sweet  in  smell,  to  carry  to  the  goal ; 
For  breakfast  nourishes  the  flesh,  it's  true, 
But  the  narcissus-flower  feeds  the  soul. 


COURAGE 

'Tis  foolishness  to  call  existence  good ; 

Mere  lack  of  observation  to  cry,  bad ; 

Futile  to  think  to  better  it.     What  we've  had 

On  this  inchoate  earth,  in  likelihood 
We'd  have  again.     We  are  not  merely  wood, 

But  furnished  out  with  brains;  and  we  are 
mad 

Unless  we  struggle  against  being  sad. 

Cowardice  was  the  hill  where  my  cross  stood. 
We  know  not  who  is  moving  us  at  will, 

"  Impotent  pieces  " :  but  we  surely  know, 

Unable  to  resist  the  movement,  still 
We  can  resist  not  caring  where  we  go. 

We  can  cry  out  beneath  the  knocks  that  kill, 

"  Heads  up  !     But  I  require  a  harder  blow !  " 


PAIN'S  USE 

THE  secret  is, —  to  make  your  sorrow  sing, 
And  j  oin  the  unheard  choruses  exhaling 
From  tragedies  of  happinesses  failing, 
From  every  bent  and  bitter,  futile  thing. 

Learn  to  enjoy  the  anguishes  that  bring 
A  sure  empiric  to  the  heart  sore  ailing 
Behind  the  cheap  misunderstandings  veiling 
That  beauty  pressed  from  hearts  hard  sorrows 
wring. 

If  it  were  fed  on  sweets  alone,  the  palate 
Would  sicken  and  the  appetite  would  die. 
There  needs  the  ruthless  pounding  of  a  mallet 

To  fill  the  counterpoint  of  life.     A  cry 

Is  not  discordant  to  a  laugh.     Fate's  valet, 
Pain,  brushes  garments  which  are  you  and  I. 


EPITAPH 

HERE  lies  the  languid  body  of  my  friend : 
One  who  was  valiant,  intimate,  and  gay, 
A  little  pensive,  brave  in  his  array, 
Tender  to  point  of  anguish,  hard  to  bend. 

Nobly  he  sought,  but  uselessly,  to  lend 
His  native  mind  to  what  the  churches  say. 
And  when  death  took  him  suddenly  away, 
Which  was  it,  a  beginning  or  an  end? 

For  me  left  here  behind  him,  he  is  no  more, 
Who  was  my  mate-in-arms,  my  playfellow, 
My  confidant,  my  solace  in  despair. 

I  had  not  visited  his  grave  before. 

The  rest  have  all  forgotten  him,  I  know, 
And  I  who  do  remember,  scarcely  care. 


THE  INSIDIOUS  VOICE 

WHO  is  it  speaking  softly  to  my  soul 

In  cautious  words  of  augury  and  wonder, — 
Saying,  not  alone  the  timorous  go  under, 
Nor  do  the  valiant  always  reach  the  goal: 

Saying  again,  the  weary  world  will  roll 

As  well  'mid  hush  of  peace  as  roar  of  thunder, 
For  everything  is  not  achieved  by  plunder, 
And  none  can  tell  us  who  is  in  control    .    .    .  ? 

At  first  I  listen  breathlessly,  and  ask, 
Will  not  this  enemy  behind  the  door 
Purloin  my  gods  from  off  the  sacred  shelf? 

I  shout,  to  hinder  his  subversive  task 

Against  my  soul :  and  when  I  hear  no  more 
I  recognize  the  voice, —  my  soul  itself. 


VILLA  MEDICI 

DARLING,  above  this  terrace,  where  our  grief, 
Perplexity,  and  strange  entanglement 
Paced  in  a  crowd  around  us  where  we  went, 
Rise  the  enormous  pines,  in  high  relief 

Against  the  heaven :  in  a  single  sheaf, 

Beauty  and  strength  are  magnified  and  blent. 
A  little  while,  our  secret  woe  is  spent, 
As  a  mad  wave  is  spent  against  a  reef. 

We  cannot  read  our  sorrows  into  Nature ; 
But  let  us  read  her  beauty  into  them : 
Let  us  awhile  remember  that  our  soul 

Is  tranquil  too,  and  though  of  lesser  stature 
Is  more  divine, —  a  bell  upon  the  hem 
Of  the  High  Priest  who  regulates  the  whole. 


SANTA  RESTITUDINE 

VALDANIENE 

BY  day,  above  Oricola  a  cloud 

Huge,      rounded,      whitely-golden,      always 

hung,— 

One  of  the  regal  regiment  slow  swung 
Along  the  Abruzzi  mountains   regal-browed. 
By  night,  the  town  was  vanished.     Once,  when 

loud 

Rang  the  gay  song,  and  laugh  as  gaily  sung, 
In  our   own   village,   showers   of  flame  were 

slung 

Aloft,  far-off,  upon  night's  inky  shroud. 
'Twas  fireworks  in  Oricola,  I  was  told, 
For  Santa  Restitudine, — "  a  saint 
We  don't  believe  in  here." —  Green,  scarlet, 

gold 
Spattered  the   void   with   sparks. —  What   sad 

restraint 

Precludes  belief,  when  heaven  is  seen  to  hold 
Joys  unto  which  our  mirrored  joys  are  faint! 


EXHORTATION 

LADIES,    parade    your    plumes    and    spreading 

skirts : 

And  if  the  draught  be  chilly,  pluck  the  lawn 
Over     your     powdered    bosoms.     Pale    and 

drawn 

Comes  daybreak  which  your  carmine  discon- 
certs. 

What  though  but  salve  sanguinolent  exerts 
Its  empire !  —  ye  are  rosier  than  the  dawn ; 
And  lighter-footed  than  the  fleeing  fawn 
Who    drops    in    leafy    coverts    while    blood 

spurts. 

Exhibit  glistering  teeth,  elusive  smiles; 
Stretch  fingers  to  the  lifted  frock,  the  fan, 
The  rebel  tress.     Alert!     Employ  all  wiles, 
Traditional  and  instinctive,  on  the  man, — 
But  not  against  him     .     .     .     Through  the 

allotted  miles 
Of  ennui,  he's  your  yoke-mate  in  the  span. 


YB  76166 


